


It always comes back to you

by shinyoten



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Brief Mentions of Cannibalism, Dream Sequence, Fluff, Longing, Loss of time, M/M, One-Shot, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Smoking, Stag - Freeform, kiss, will stares a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 23:13:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7594168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyoten/pseuds/shinyoten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will spends a long time hunting for answers after the Fall, only to realize what he needs is right in front of him. Short fluffy one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It always comes back to you

Will pauses, eyeing Hannibal through the misty fog on the glass created by his hot breath. He does not know why he is watching the older man, poised on the veranda, blowing smoke from his cigarette. Streaks of silver are visible in Hannibal’s hair, which has grown longer and shaggier in the past few months. His thin lips are curved into a luxurious exhale and his eyes are closed. The lawn smells of a recent rain, intermixed with the earthy smell of mud and wafting smoke.

Will’s eyes remain transfixed on his companion for some time, locked on curved lips, and tanned arms. Hannibal’s sleeves are rolled up and his legs are neatly crossed. He blinks slowly, finally facing Will as the man opens the sliding glass door and steps onto the porch. They say nothing, merely eyeing each other. Hannibal offers a cigarette to Will, but he shakes his head, breaks the stare and walks past him without a word, into the morning fog.

~*~

Will makes a habit of trekking through the woods in the early morning. He imagines that he is hunting a stag. At first, he had imagined it as large and black, heaving its head to and fro. It would snarl and kick its hooves, eluding his sight. Today however, it is white, standing in a clearing, with its head raised high. Its crimson eyes meet Will’s gaze, and the man dares to take a step forward. The animal does not charge nor flee. Will’s hand almost grazes its sleek, white fur, before the sound of rustling trees brings him back to reality.

He stands in the clearing alone. A squirrel, the source of the noise, rushes past him and back into the trees. He is left with a sense of emptiness and decides to head back to the house. He is hesitant to call it theirs, this stolen holiday-home.

Hannibal is making breakfast, omelets, along with freshly-cut fruit and toast with an avocado spread. Will slides onto a stool at the kitchen island, sitting silently as his companion pours him a cup of coffee. The steam rushes into his face, causing him to breathe deeply.

  
“How was the stroll this morning?” Hannibal begins casually.

  
Will blinks slowly, palming his cup of joe as if trying to suck the warmth from it. “Uneventful. Wet. Cold.”

  
Hannibal frowns for but a moment before serving him some food. “You’re restless.”

  
“Yes,” Will answers. “When will we leave this place?”

  
_You mean to say, when will we hunt. When will you be free?_

  
A pause passes between them. “What are you seeking Will? Would you be at ease, if we moved to another wood, with another stream? Let go Will, and maybe you will realize that what you seek is not as far away as it seems.”

  
“Isn’t it?” he shoots back, despite himself.

  
Will freezes, regretting his words. He sighs in frustration, knowing that Hannibal’s eyes are searching him, psychoanalyzing him, looking for an explanation. The cannibal does not prod him however, and merely serves himself breakfast and begins to eat. Will finishes his meal quickly before retreating from the kitchen.

~*~

Will does not mean to stare, but he knows he does. He does each morning, when Hannibal smokes with his lips parted, and each evening when he clutches a glass of wine delicately in his hand, raising it to his lips. He stares at the door when Hannibal is gone, at the rippling muscles of the man’s back and arms as he cooks, or at the curl of his upper lip when he snarls when they argue. He stares at Hannibal when he makes clinical cuts into corpses or when he crushes bones without expression, grinding them, redesigning them. He stares for months, as they move, in silence together, but in unison, amidst the death and controversy and swapped names.

  
Some days, the smoke and the blood and the quiet become too much, and Will’s walks last for hours rather than minutes. He’s gone sometimes in the morning or he is gone all night. He follows the white stag, through woods, along the road, and outside people’s houses. He risks identities and loses track of time. Will always finds his way home, though. One night however, Hannibal remains awake, waiting for him at the door.

  
“You wander too much,” he states simply, guiding him back inside.

  
Will stares, as he always does, but tonight he does not avert his gaze. “I think I’ve found what I’m looking for.”

  
“Have you?” Hannibal muses, his breath quickening at the other man’s dilated pupils, which are swirling with black.

  
Will’s movements are slow and languid. His fingers brush Hannibal’s arms with feather-light strokes. He blinks, once, then twice, exhaling, before resting his head against the man’s chest. He feels arms encircle him after a mere moment’s hesitation.

  
“Will…” Hannibal breathes, surprise etched in his voice.

  
The younger man’s knuckles knead into his back, his fingers clench and then unclench. He laughs quietly to himself, before looking up at Hannibal. He brings a hand up, and ever-so-slowly strokes the side of the man’s face. He sees those lips he stares at so often quiver faintly, and those eyebrows raise. Their faces grow closer till their foreheads meet. They are rocking, quietly against one another, and Will feels a wetness touch his lips, which falls from his companion’s eyes. He catches the tear on his tongue and runs his fingers through silvery-blond hair.

  
Hannibal says nothing, nor does Will. When their lips brush, it is soft, not hungry nor violent. They remain together, just poised against each other and breathing.

  
Will does not see the stag anymore after that.


End file.
